


I Don't Want to Fall in Love

by somewhereelse



Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-14
Updated: 2017-04-14
Packaged: 2018-10-18 17:07:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10621347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/somewhereelse/pseuds/somewhereelse
Summary: AU. Felicity is the sound tech for former boybander Oliver Queen’s comeback tour. He might be dedicating songs about sex and love to her, and how dare you, sir?!





	

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. Went to an Eric Church concert recently. Guess who I realized kinda look alike? (In that they both wear aviators and scruff.) Dusted off ye olde Photoshop.  
> 2\. You can pretend Oliver sounds like Phillip Phillips covering Chris Isaak’s Wicked Game, Jamie Cullum covering Jeff Buckley’s Lover, You Should’ve Come Over, or Niklas von Arnold covering Van Morrison’s Crazy Love (or don’t, up to you).  
> 3\. I have negative knowledge on how to run a concert.

“Where is he?” Felicity demands as soon as she spots a person who might know the location she’s seeking. Roy Harper, the young guitarist who’d been a last minute replacement, holds his hands up innocently before pointing to a nearby corner. Sure enough, a familiar baseball hat is peeking up from behind some instrument cases, and she quickly adjusts her route.

The crew member talking to Oliver catches her expression as she nears and beats a hasty retreat. If Oliver’s confused by the man’s sudden disappearance, the telltale sounds of her high heels must warn him about her approach because, when he turns to her, he’s appropriately shamefaced. He, too, holds up his hands in defense, but Felicity beats him to it, “What the hell are you thinking? You cannot text me at four am before a show and demand to change the entire setup. That is one of the most unprofessional things I have ever experienced, and, let me tell you, buddy, I have seen _a lot_.”

When she’d signed on to his tour as the live-sound engineer, Felicity had expected that working for Ollie Queen would present some unusual misadventures, to be kind. Womanizing, heavy drinking, excessive drug use, generally unprofessional behavior related to all of the above, sure, but not this kind of bullshit. She’s unprepared for a complete about-face halfway through a nearly sold-out and critically praised tour and a demand that they overhaul everything essentially overnight.

Ollie Queen had kicked off his career as one-third of a boy band sensation known as The Vault. Along with Tommy Merlyn and Max Fuller, the trio of trustafarians had taken the world by storm, attracting even more money and more problems than they already had once fame was added to the mix. About five years ago, the band had broken up, and Oliver had disappeared amid rumors that Max had set him up on a drug possession and intent to distribute charge as revenge for his sleeping with Max’s fiancée at the rehearsal dinner. Then, unexpectedly, Oliver had reemerged last year with a near unrecognizable attitude and sound, going from spoiled popstar to serious bluesman.

That change had been what convinced Felicity to throw her hat in on this frankly risky tour. Oliver had somehow earned enough goodwill to gain the backing of some major industry players, and the nostalgia associated with The Vault had driven initial ticket sales. But there had been no guarantee that the former teenybopper fans, now full-fledged adults, would buy his new persona, that the tour wouldn’t fall apart after the first reviews hit the wires, that Oliver himself wouldn’t backslide into poor behavior and self-sabotage. When the feedback had been overwhelmingly positive—most were impressed by adult Oliver and how the man had clearly matured from his immature youth—everyone on the tour had breathed a sigh of relief.

“I can explain,” he hedges, shifting her out of the way of the roadies with a gentle hand on her shoulder.

“Talk fast,” Felicity grumbles as token resistance to his firm hold.

Biting his lip, Oliver reluctantly meets her eyes. “Adrian Chase wrote in his review that I was all flash, no substance.”

“Then perform better. Don’t make your problem, everyone else’s problem,” she shoots back automatically. When he visibly deflates, shoulders slumping, she immediately regrets it. With an apologetic grimace, Felicity pulls him into a quieter hallway. “Adrian Chase is just still pissed that you got his father fired from Rolling Stone after he took a bribe from Max Fuller to lie in an article about the drug charges being true.”

At his blank look, she sighs heavily. “Do you read anything Thea sends you? Forget about him. Listen to the people who actually give a crap about you. I’m not talking about the idiots you surrounded yourself with when you were a teenager. I’m talking about now. The people who stood by you and supported you when you decided to start again. The people whose livelihoods depend on you putting on a good show and selling tickets so they have no reason to lie and stroke your ego when they say that you’re doing well.” She carefully watches as he shifts nervously from foot to foot, obviously not believing her.

“Oliver, you’re doing a great—an amazing job. You’re not selling out these shows because people want to see a has-been who’s not even performing his old songs. You are selling out these shows because you are damn talented. Look, I get that it’s been hard, that there are people who don’t believe you’ve changed or aren’t willing to give you a second chance. And maybe some of _their_  criticism is valid, but you shouldn’t listen to a man who has a vendetta against you and will be happy only if you fall off a figurative cliff. Or maybe literal cliff, I don’t know what the hell Adrian Chase’s dysfunction is.”

“Felicity,” Oliver interjects, smiling softly, “You’re remarkable.” She leans into his hand, which always seems to find a way to cup her cheek or touch her shoulder. 

“Remarkable enough to have changed your mind about redoing the entire stage design and production setup?” Felicity questions seriously. “I’m not saying it’s perfect. If there are specific things you don’t like, we can work on them. But texting me that everything is the worst and we have to start all over immediately is, like, the opposite of helpful.”

He nods along then looks over her shoulder to where Thea’s approaching. “Apparently, no one else is willing to interrupt your little lover’s quarrel,” Thea smiles slyly at Felicity’s blush, “but you’re both needed for sound check.” After rolling his eyes at his sister, Oliver squeezes her shoulder once more in thanks and jogs up the stairs to the stage.

“Come on, baby, light his fire,” Thea teases, slinging an arm around Felicity’s shoulders.

Felicity cringes as they follow Oliver’s path. “You’re the worst.”

“I’m the worst? You’re the one who got that panic text and didn’t take the invitation to go _comfort_ him. Work with me here. What the hell do I have to do?” she loudly complains then shoots Curtis a dirty look when he pulls Felicity away to the sound board.

* * *

“Hey,” she calls out, pushing open the door to Oliver’s hotel room. Normally, the talent gets put up in a different (read: better) hotel than the crew, but Oliver hadn’t wanted special treatment. Instead, he’d convinced the organizers to book middle of the road hotels the whole way through, so the crew had gotten a little nicer digs than usual, which were still perfectly serviceable for him.

And that has somehow lead her here. Felicity can’t remember exactly when Oliver had started handing her the extra key to his room every night or when it had become tradition for her to come over after they finished breaking down the setup, but it’s now their ritual. 

The shower’s running, so she quickly makes herself comfortable, pushing over a pile of sweaty workout clothes and stretching out on one side of his bed. For his part, Oliver no longer frequents the bars after shows. Instead, he books a trainer in each city so he can hit the gym with a vengeance to burn off the energy high that being on stage gives him. By the time she and the rest of the crew make it to the hotel, and she stops off in her own room to clean up and change, he’s usually in the shower. At the beginning, it had resulted in a few close calls, and a couple times when she couldn’t really look him in the eye the next day, but now it’s second nature.

Felicity must fall asleep because she wakes up to a large, warm palm cupping her cheek and a calloused thumb lightly rubbing over what she knows are the dark circles under her eyes. “Rude,” she grumbles, even as she nuzzles into his hand, and he huffs out a chuckle.

“You need to sleep more,” Oliver chastises, straightening to pull a shirt over his head. Felicity shuts her eyes tightly to avoid drooling. “Maybe you should take it up with your boss,” he teases lightly, “Do you just want to sleep here? I can take the couch.”

“No, don’t be ridiculous.” Felicity hadn’t noticed a couch when she walked in but she’s fairly certain he’s not going to fit on it. Plus, she does not need the added _benefit_ of someone catching her leaving Oliver’s room in the morning and getting the wrong idea; their close friendship is already the subject of insidious rumors, which may prove damaging to her career but for now she can’t really bring herself to care. “Was there anything show-related you wanted to talk about? If not, I’m just going to go back to my room. Not that I don’t love spending the night with you,” she nearly swallows her tongue, “I mean, not like that. I mean, platonically, hanging out, shooting the breeze. I’m not coming onto you. You know what I mean.”

Oliver just smiles at her accidental innuendo and offers his hand to help her out of bed. “Nothing that can’t wait till morning. You should get some rest.” He walks her to the door and murmurs a quiet good night when she tiptoes to kiss his cheek. Dropping his forehead to the closed door, Oliver heaves out a sigh. Away is not the direction he wants her to go, but it’s wholly unsurprising at this point.

Diggle had been the first to introduce them at the beginning of tour rehearsals. His trusty manager had assured him that Felicity was the best of the best, even if she was young and a little untried, but Oliver had had no idea what to make of the bubbly blonde whose mouth moved faster than her brain wanted and who favored bright, _short_  dresses when the world they lived in was clothed in black. It’d taken all of one rehearsal session for her to impress not only him, an easy feat given that he spent most of his former career drunk and/or high, but also the senior members of the band and crew. It’d taken till about the end of the week for them to realize she wasn’t just a top-notch engineer but also a computer whiz and all-around genius. Pretty soon, most of the crew had started turning to her for every problem they ran into, including him.

A week before their first show, Oliver had caught the guitarist cornering a clearly uncomfortable Thea. Despite his sister’s assurances that she was handling it, he’d nearly gotten into a fist fight with the older man. Felicity had been the one to intervene, pushing her way between the men, who’d thankfully backed down slightly to avoid hurting the smaller woman. She’d then reminded him that there were other options, so he’d fired the guitarist on the spot to the organizers’ outrage. 

While he had stalled management and the backers from calling off the tour entirely due to his rash behavior, Felicity had quickly found them a replacement; Roy was young and rough around the edges but clearly talented and willing to work overtime to catch up. With the situation remedied without any extra expense or delay, the tour had started as planned, except that Oliver found himself increasingly preoccupied with their sound engineer.

He’s spent the last month cultivating their friendship, hoping that she would catch the subtle signs when friendship turned to him wanting _more_. To this day, she’s shown no sign of ever having noticed, and he’s wondering if he’s lost his game. Because he’s never had to work this hard for a woman’s attention before and because this is nothing like a game to him.

* * *

Clutching a large coffee, Felicity comes upon the Queen siblings loudly arguing in the lobby of the venue.

“Well, good thing you’re not in charge of your publicity, Oliver,” Thea declares, seemingly done with their conversation. Spying Felicity, she quickly changes tactics, “Look, we’ll get an unbiased opinion, and if that person says ‘no’, I’ll tell them to pick another picture.” Wearily, Oliver shrugs his acceptance. “Great,” she half-turns and raises her voice, “Felicity, got a second? We need your help.”

Just from the set of his shoulders, Felicity can tell Oliver is mentally berating himself for falling into Thea’s trap. “What’s up guys?”

Holding up her phone, Thea questions, “What do you think of this photo?”

“ _Hngh._ ”

Thea nods in approval. “Excellent. See you guys later.”

“I don’t know what that sound means. And are you okay?” Oliver crouches slightly to peer into her face as Felicity curls in on herself in embarrassment, nearly dropping her coffee.

It’s one thing to see Oliver on stage practically every night. But his attention is always on the band and the audience, and her attention is always on making sure everything’s running as smoothly as possible. She never has a moment to just stop and  _appreciate_. At least he always wears sunglasses on stage due to the harsh lighting. If she could see his eyes, Felicity’s fairly certain her clothes would have caught fire.

“Fine, I’m fine. You look good. I mean, the photo looks good.” She collects herself and straightens, gesturing for him to lead the way to the auditorium. Instead, he holds the door open and waits for her to walk through. “Why don’t you like it?”

“I look douchey,” Oliver complains, his hand resting on her back as they start down the long aisle to the stage.

Barely pausing to smirk up at him, Felicity teases, “A different photo isn’t going to fix that.” When Oliver groans, she just shrugs, “Oh, come on. You walked into that one.” He gives her one last exasperated look before they’re pulled in opposite directions.

* * *

Felicity cocks her head when Oliver starts on a familiar riff after a brief conference with the band. Familiar because the song is an unforgettable part of her adolescence, as it must have also been for the screaming audience, but not because she’s ever heard Oliver play it before. He keeps playing the riff on loop as he speaks to the audience about how he often returns to his favorite older songs and finds new meaning in them. Before she can brace for it, his low singing voice is rasping out the intro verse to “Wicked Game”. For a long minute, she lets her mind spiral to another reality, specifically a certain black and white music video where she’s rolling around on a beach with a shirtless Oliver. Undoubtedly, the audience is dreaming up the same fantasy.

It’s only the panic in Curtis’ voice as he struggles to keep up with the ever-changing set list that brings her back to the real world (though his muttering “he’s straight and I’m married” has her stifling a laugh). Oliver had released an EP prior to the tour, but it’s not enough material for a full show, so each night is supplemented with a mix of covers and him workshopping new songs. In other words, a gauntlet for her and Curtis as they work to keep up with his improvising.

At the end of the night, Thea approaches her during a lull in her tour manager duties. “You know, he spent the entire time looking at you.” Felicity’s forehead wrinkles in confusion, and the younger woman sighs impatiently. “I uploaded “Wicked Game” to his channel. It’s already going viral, kudos to Curtis for switching on the camera in time. Anyway, he was basically singing into the camera the entire time. You know he doesn’t care where the camera is, so unless he was looking at Curtis...” she trails off, raising a telling eyebrow, before getting called away as Felicity’s trying to think of a response.

Shaking off the encounter, Felicity returns to her equipment. It’s a flattering thought, but that’s it. Just a thought. In fact, it’s practically unthinkable.

* * *

When she swings open her hotel door the next morning in response to some persistent knocking, to her surprise, Oliver is standing in the hallway, holding two cups of coffee. “Where were you last night?” he asks by way of greeting as he walks past her into her room.

Felicity is still processing the image of Oliver in her space, because it’s always been her making herself comfortable in his room. The strangeness must occur to him too, because, after his initial bravado of barging in without an invitation, he’s now fidgeting in front of the TV. Awkwardly, he lurches a step forward to hand her a coffee before withdrawing again.

“Uh,” Felicity tries to clear her throat, “I was just tired and knew I’d fall asleep pretty quickly.” 

It’s a lie. Thea’s observation had stuck with her as they made their way to the hotel, and when she’d watched the video, Oliver had barely turned his head from the sound board, specifically the left side that she normally favored. With his sunglasses, it’s impossible to see where exactly he’d been looking, but she knows that he enjoys walking around the stage and engaging different areas of the audience. It’s rare for him to stay at the mic for very long, especially during a song with instrumental breaks.

She’d done her best to put that out of her mind, and his room key had been in her hand when she’d remembered the lyrics. While it’s an undeniably _sexy_ song, it’s not a particularly happy one, speaking to the singer’s desire to  _not_ have feelings. Which is when she’d panicked. On the off chance that his cover choice had been somehow related to their increasingly close _friendship_ , she hadn’t wanted to acknowledge it. She certainly hadn’t wanted to be confronted by the harsh reality of Oliver knowing about her feelings and saying outright that he doesn’t want to fall in love with her. So she’d dropped the key and hid under her covers, eventually falling into a restless sleep.

She can’t see his eyes because of the omnipresent sunglasses, but his jaw ticks. Unbeknownst to her, Oliver is fighting a visceral reaction to her sleep-roughened voice. He pulls it together enough to respond, “Oh. Did you sleep well?”

“Sure,” Felicity shrugs another lie. Her mind is screaming with questions she is most definitely not going to ask. No way that Ollie Queen, world famous womanizer and connoisseur of supermodels—or for that matter her boss and friend Oliver—is impliedly dedicating songs—songs about desire and falling in love—to _her_. Instead of giving her brain-to-mouth filter a chance to malfunction and ask those questions, she bites her lip and remains determinedly silent.

Oliver lifts his sunglasses to rest on his forehead, studying her with open curiosity. Felicity fights to not fidget with her bedhead, he’s certainly seen her in rougher shape. “I’ll see you for lunch then?”

“Yep.” Hoping she sounds normal, Felicity lifts the coffee cup, “Thanks for this.” Still looking unconvinced, Oliver nods seriously then lets himself out of her room. “Frak,” Felicity mutters under her breath. She needs to pull it together because they have two more months of this damn tour left and she cannot spend it operating under the _delusion_ that Oliver is in love/lust with her. Then, she takes a sip of her coffee, and _of course_ it’s made to her exact preferences. Unattainable jerk really needs to be less thoughtful.

Oliver pauses as the door shuts behind him. _Something_ has changed. Unfortunately for him, not enough has changed. Point to Thea, then. His song choice had been too subtle last night. And he’s pretty sure she hadn’t even noticed his gaze on her, sunglasses or not, given that her eyes never left her board or monitors.

* * *

This is impossible. He is driving her crazy, unintentionally, of course.

Tonight, it’s a cover of “Lover, You Should’ve Come Over”. This time, she can’t help but look up from her board every couple seconds so she doesn’t have to wait for Thea or the video playback to know he’d turned her direction the entire time. Thankfully, after a short autograph session, he rushes off to his gym appointment, and Felicity is free to pack up her equipment without fear of running into Oliver.

Her peace isn’t for long. Instead of Thea, it’s Roy who approaches her. This is the first tour for the guitarist, and he’s taken the opportunity to immerse himself in all aspects of putting on a show. He helps with setting up and often is the last one out the door. His crush on Thea Queen might also have something to do with it, but she’s not going to point that out.

“Will you just fuck him already?” Roy questions bluntly, uncaring of the roadie who’s wheeling away one of her equipment cases. To his credit, the man doesn’t dawdle, just blushes slightly and hightails it out of there—a cue that Roy should really take. Felicity doesn’t dignify the question with a response, and the musician nears to poke her shoulder. “Oh come on. He’s so depressing right now. Our setlist sounds like an emo kid’s wet dream. If he makes me play “Creep” tomorrow night, I’m going to lose it.”

Okay, maybe she will point out his crush on Thea. She threatens to do exactly that, and Roy retreats readily although his smirk still infuriates her. Felicity shakes her head then carries on with her packing.

When they get back to the hotel, Oliver is sitting in the lobby, freshly showered but wearing a baseball hat tugged low as a disguise. He greets the crew warmly, repeats his customary thank you from after the show, and then turns to her expectantly. “Oh,” Felicity flushes, which is only made worse when she catches Thea’s knowing look as she disappears into an elevator. “Uh, I normally change before heading to yours.”

“I noticed,” Oliver responds, trying and failing to keep the slight growl from his voice. By the way Felicity’s blush deepens, she definitely heard it. He likes all of her wardrobes, even if he can’t figure out how she packs it all with her. The bright colors she favors for rehearsal and setup make him smile when he catches sight of her; the black she wears during shows to blend in with the rest of the crew give him ideas for roleplay; and the worn lounge clothes she takes comfort in have him fantasizing about lazy Sundays. “I just wanted to make sure you were coming tonight.”

“You could have texted,” Felicity smiles because they both know he only uses his phone for emergencies, and he just shrugs. _How_  is she so attracted to such a Luddite? When they’re silent a beat too long, she gestures helplessly with her hands. “I’ll meet you in your room?” Oliver agrees, and they awkwardly board the elevator, quiet until she steps off on her floor with promises to be quick. Thankfully, he only wants to talk shop that night, ideas to improve the beta app that lets the audience vote for the next song, and doesn’t broach the topic of that very interesting song choice. When she yawns for the third time, he sends her off with a sincere good night, leaning down to kiss her cheek.

“Crap,” they simultaneously grimace on opposite sides of the door.

* * *

“Ouch,” Felicity mutters to herself as she crawls out from under the stage. This is _so_ not the right dress for today. Tonight’s venue is just reopening after a damaging fire, and whoever reinstalled the sound system bungled the entire thing. Previous acts might have made do with the mess, but it hurts her heart to use a setup this terrible.

At her signal, Curtis blasts another test, and they—and the rest of the crew—wince at the feedback. Rolling her eyes, Felicity goes in search of the utility closet with the connection lines that one of the venue workers swears exists. She yanks open the fifth unlabeled door and yelps in surprise, slamming it back shut quickly.

Closing her eyes, Felicity leans against the wall next to the door and counts down from three. With a deep breath, she reopens the door to find Thea and Roy, vaguely attempting to make themselves presentable again but unable to hide the glee in their expressions. “Seriously?” she raises her eyebrows, mainly because if she can’t have the object of her affections, they shouldn’t get to have theirs. Thea shrugs unapologetically, while, surprisingly, Roy blushes deeply. “But, really, get out. I need to do things in here.” The pair rushes off, probably to find a different closet, and Felicity lets out the laugh she’d been holding in.

By the time she’s finished rewiring the connections, she’s covered in a fine layer of dust and feeling a little claustrophobic. She pushes the door open with a weary sigh, ready to tell Curtis that if this doesn’t work, they’re cancelling the show, when a voice carries down the empty hall.

“That weird tech-nerd girl is always following him around. I bet he’s dying for some two-eyed company.”

Felicity catches a swish of brunette hair turning the corner away from her and immediately places the voice: Isabel Rochev, the daughter of the owner of this fine establishment. They’d met briefly earlier, or rather she’d been trying to adjust for a flat spot in the back corner and Oliver had been making unhelpful suggestions on how to do her job, when Isabel had approached to proposition Oliver and ignore her. Oliver had merely blinked at the blatant offer of sex then mumbled an excuse to go find Thea. Felicity had been left with the glaring woman until she stomped away.

 _Oh,_ the jab hits her harder than she would have liked, and she tiredly sags against the wall, _I guess you don’t grow out of that hurt._ She’s spent too long on the road, surrounded by people who largely only care how well she does her job—damn well, so that’s all that matters. Being a part of the technical crew means that she’s far from the hangers-on who want nothing more than to sleep with Ollie Queen, not that she can really blame them, and frankly out-of-touch with how society likes to judge women like her.

“I think I saw her looking for a utility closet over here.” Thankfully, there’s always Thea, and also thankfully, Felicity hears the younger woman before she sees her, giving her a moment to plaster on a smile. Thea returns the smile tentatively, obviously wary that Felicity will spill the beans, but then brightens and hooks an arm through hers. “Found her! All good?”

“Should be working now,” Felicity confirms. “If not, there’s probably some truth to the rumor that the owner set the fire for insurance fraud, because they sure as hell cut corners on the repairs.” Thea gives her a sideways look, as if she’s not sure if she’s supposed to laugh, and Felicity sighs because why can’t she ever stop being _weird tech-nerd girl_? “Never mind. Have you met the owner’s daughter?”

Thea groans exaggeratedly, “Oh, the _worst_. Crazy tried to get Ollie’s room number from me. Even if she does somehow find it, I hope she gets an earful of you two arguing about acoustics again. Or better yet, banging like a screen door in a hurricane.” Curtis pulls her away before Felicity can even blush, or threaten to tell Oliver about catching her and Roy (not that she would do that).

Fixing the sound system turns out to be worth the shot to her ego, and Thea ends up mostly right when she and Oliver spend half the night arguing over an acoustic version of a new song.

* * *

He knows it must have sounded bad when Felicity lets herself into his room so quickly that she stumbles to a stop against the dresser. “Are you okay?” she sounds panicked, eyes roving over him as if looking for physical injuries. 

“I’m fine,” Oliver is quick to reassure her, taking her hands in his and settling her beside him on the couch. “It’s not like I expected Laurel to have good things to say about me.”

Felicity cringes, but he politely ignores it. He wasn’t, maybe still isn’t, a good person, and she shouldn’t have any delusions about him (in fact, she should be running in the opposite direction). Max’s fiancée hadn’t been the only one caught cheating that night, and that’s not even the worse he’d done to Laurel. He cringes a little himself, remembering their unfortunate break up.

“I don’t know what Dig was thinking,” Felicity mutters in clear incredulity.

“That I need to confront my past in order to let go of it,” he responds, shrugging when she turns startled eyes to him. “When the magazine approached, we discussed it. They really wanted an interview,” his popularity has been rising since the “Wicked Game” cover went viral, “so they promised not to send Laurel. But I said that if she was willing, I’d sit down with her. I can’t move forward when I’m constantly stuck in the past.”

Laurel and her sister Sara, or The Birds of Prey, had been on the teenybopper circuit at the same time as The Vault. They’d met when they were nineteen, playing at the same radio station concert, and due to growing up in the business, it had been the first serious “relationship” for both of them. While the initial attraction was genuine, their record labels’ enthusiasm for the publicity had encouraged the relationship to go on three years too long. Eventually, in what he now realizes had been the nuclear option since the regular cheating hadn’t done the trick, he’d started blatantly sleeping with Sara, and they’d gotten caught. Laurel, quickly but quietly, had ended them and The Birds of Prey for good and had finally stopped deferring her NYU admission, going on to become a well-respected writer in the music industry.

“She’s not wrong, you know. I have been trying to capitalize on my past without really accepting it as a part of me.” He did it every time he relied on the boyish charm that had been The Vault’s bread and butter and the loyalty of the fanbase they’d built, while still refusing to talk about them or their music. “I don’t want to drag Tommy or Max into it,” Oliver didn’t need to tell her that they’d both left this life behind and were happier for it, “I don’t want to make it seem like I’m using them for attention, but I can’t come up with anything to avoid that.”

“Did Laurel offer any suggestions, or did she just rip you apart and leave you for dead?” Felicity questions sarcastically before clapping a hand over her mouth. “I didn’t mean that. I mean, clearly her grievances with your past are legitimate. And you two obviously never got _closure_  so she’s allowed—not allowed but it’s at least understandable? That she would want to yell at you, and like only yell at you and not be some conduit for your inner peace, or something.”

Oliver just stares at her, a small smile playing on his lips. “You two would actually like each other, I think.”

Bouncing a little in her seat, Felicity grins. “Really? You know, I was a big Birds of Prey fan growing up. Sara was my favorite though, no offense to Laurel. She was just so _cool_.”

“Yeah, you’re _not_ meeting Sara,” he bites out heatedly, only realizing his mistake when she tilts her head in silent question. _Because she would think you’re adorable and steal you from me._ Oliver knows that’s nowhere near an appropriate response so he quickly changes the subject back, “If you can think of anything I can do, let me know?”

“I mean, you’re still close with Tommy right?” Felicity asks, knowing that Oliver considers Tommy one of his best friends. “Maybe just reach out and let him know what you’re trying to do. Because, and I hate this but, anything you do is going to seem like you’re trying to grab attention.”

“Right,” Oliver mutters. Tommy is too good-natured to not agree, but Max will be a futile call. Still, he owes the man a heads up before dragging him (back) into the headlines. The media had already done a _where are they now?_  segment on The Vault when he’d decided to come out of his self-imposed exile, and if Max hadn’t appreciated that two months ago, he’s unlikely to have changed his mind since. “Yeah, it can’t hurt.”

Felicity smiles encouragingly, then points her thumb over her shoulder towards the doors. “I should go.”

At the same time Oliver opens his mouth to say, “Want to watch a movie or something?”

“Oliver,” she sounds dejected, “It’s not a good idea.”

And he knows it’s not. He’d just been thinking about all the ways she would benefit by not being involved with him. But he’d never been entirely cured of his selfishness, and sometimes, most of the time, all he wants is someone who recognizes that he’s doing his best to be a better person and who’s willing to help him along. Oliver’s not really sure what Felicity’s been gaining from their friendship, but, up until his clumsy attempts to woo her through _song_ , she’d been perfectly happy, eager even, to spend time with him. Clearly, she’s decided otherwise, and he’s not going to push her on that logical decision. Unless she launches into one of her famous rambles.

“I just don’t think we should pretend this is something more than it is. I’m glad we get along so well professionally. I mean, I was having nightmares about you being a bag of dicks before I met you, based off the no longer true reputation,” she’s quick to add when the corners of Oliver’s mouth tick downward. “But you don’t have to be friends with me. I know I don’t really play well with others, except Curtis. Not like that! Obviously. He’s gay. And married. I just mean that you don’t have to feel responsible for my social life, or lack thereof.”

“That’s,” Oliver finds his mouth momentarily uncooperative as she adjusts her glasses in jerky motions, “That’s not it at all. I like hanging out with you, Felicity. I like _you_. I’m pretty pathetic on the friend front, too—I mean, my best friend is my manager—but I was hoping that I could count you as one.”

Felicity looks stunned, but she shakes her head, gathering herself. “I still don’t think it’s a good idea, Oliver. People, including your _sister_ , are getting the wrong idea about us.”

Oh, so she had noticed. Not him necessarily, but the way everyone else had been reading him. “Is it?” When she tilts her head in question, Oliver clarifies, “Is it the wrong idea? I _like_ you, Felicity. I’m not saying that lightly. This week, more than most, I’m painfully aware of my issues and the shitty person I’ve been. But you make me want to be better, you help me _be_ better. And I like to think that on some level you like me, too, or else we wouldn’t have spent so much time together. So. In your eyes, do other people have the wrong idea about us? Because in mine? They’re right on the money.”

Eyes widening, Felicity chokes out, “Are you trying to tell me that...”

“You weren’t imagining things?” Oliver finishes for her. “You weren’t. They tried to make me act a couple times. I’m pretty terrible at it, turns out. I’m also not great at using my words. So, yeah, those songs were for you.”

When she remains shell-shocked, Oliver shakes his head to himself. “You don’t have to answer any of that. I’m sorry, it was out of line.” As her frown deepens, he continues, “You deserve better than having to put up with someone like me. Someone who apparently forces the issue instead of waiting for you to be comfortable enough to talk about it.” He stands to leave, uncaring that they’re in _his_ hotel room.

“Just stop!” Felicity finally gets out, holding up her hands in emphasis. “One of these things at a time. Please. You can’t drop a bunch of bombshells and then leave before I can even _process_.” Chastised, Oliver stops in his tracks and returns to the main room, dropping into an armchair across from the couch. His fingers drum against the armrest as Felicity visibly sorts her thoughts, opening and closing her mouth a few times.

“First,” she starts, deftly ignoring how he pinches his lips together to brace for impact, “of course I like you. What are you? Dumb, deaf, and blind?” Her tone is annoyed and incredulous, and Oliver only blinks as his brain tries to do something with that confession. “Second, I have no idea why you think you’re someone I would have to put up with. I’m not oblivious to your past, but I like the man you are _now_. The one who tries to protect his sister, who doesn’t yell at the crew, who is patient with the fans. I can’t even begin to tell you how much I like him. Third, be clearer in your song choices.”

He cocks an eyebrow. “ “Lover, You Should’ve Come Over”? After the one night we didn’t hang out after a show?”

“Yeah, okay, fair,” Felicity concedes with a shy smile, “I was trying not to get my hopes up.”

Flashing her a wicked smile, Oliver pushes out of the armchair, closing the distance between them in one long stride. “Maybe I should be more direct then.” He helps her off the couch then out of her clothes.

* * *

“Stop fucking him stupid,” Roy growls to her in the rare moment that Oliver is called away from her side. “Our setlist sounds like a wedding reception. If he makes me play that Bruno Mars song tomorrow, I’m going to lose it.” Felicity just grins and reminds him of the blackmail she has on him, since he and Thea are still trying to lay low. But, really, they're just riding the adrenaline rush of sneaking around because neither of them are actually subtle about it. It’s just that she and Oliver have been _busy_.

* * *

A year later, Oliver does make Roy play “Marry You”, and the infamously stoic guitarist does lose it when Felicity tackles Oliver, muttering _yes_  over and over.


End file.
